Page 28 of Playing Mr. Perfect

“Handsome and thoughtful,” Axsel says. “No wonder they call you Mr. Perfect.”

Clay’s jaw tightens.

“Hey, Ax, come here,” Dash calls out, and Axsel goes to him, leaving us alone at the back of the group.

I take a sip of the latte. “Mm. How did you know I like French vanilla?”

“I was with you at breakfast, remember?”

I didn’t realize he’d paid attention to such a small detail. I’m starting to think there’s more to this guy than the rumors let on.

His phone chimes with a text. As he pulls it from his pocket, it chimes again.

“Someone’s popular,” I tease as he thumbs out a text.

“It’s my buddies. A group text about the game.” The muscles in his jaw bunch as he pockets his phone.

“I’m sorry you lost the playoff.”

“Thanks.” The tension lingers in his jaw. “I hate that I blew it.”

“I don’t know much about football, but I’m sure it wasn’t just you who blew it.”

“I blew it when it counted, and that’s what matters. I hate letting my team down.”

“I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone must have a bad game now and then. Besides, you’ve won Super Bowls before. That’s more than some quarterbacks can say.”

“Yeah, but you don’t win a Super Bowl and then sit back on your laurels and take it easy. You do better, work harder, so you can win another one for the team. Teammates come and go, and some of them haven’t ever made it to the Super Bowl. They worked their asses off to get to the playoffs, and they were counting on me. And it’s not just a loss for our team. It’s a hit for our sponsors and a huge disappointment for our fans, who have cheered us on all season. It’s…” His jaw clenches. “Never mind. I’m sure it seems silly to you. A bunch of grown men tossing a ball around.”

He’s been so casual, his passion takes me by surprise, and I realize it shouldn’t. He’s talking about his career, and clearly there’s a lot more to his thoughts on the game than just winning. “No, I get it. I don’t watch football, and I admit that I didn’t understand all the hype before, but when you put it the way you just did, I get it.”

“You do?”

“Mm-hm. It’s like if I’m working on a contract and another scientist’s research isn’t up to par. The whole project can fail, making years of hard work all for naught.”

“Yes, exactly. Can you recover from that without blaming that person?”

“Of course. We’re a team, too, and it’s not always the scientist’s fault. Depending on the project, there are a multitude of factors that affect our research. All we can do is look at the data and try to figure out where we went wrong and what needs to change. It must be similar for you. Doesn’t everything impact the game? Weather? Strengths and weaknesses of your teammates and opponents on any given day? Frame of mind? There are so many variables. You can’t always be at your best. It’s physically impossible.”

“There’s no room for less than perfect during a game.”

The others start oohing and ahhing, drawing our attention to the Panthéon as it comes into view. Its majestic dome and Corinthian columns dominate the streets of the Latin Quarter. But that magnificent sight holds my attention for only a few moments before my thoughts return to the man before me. Mr. Perfect. The man who I now realize is as dedicated to his career as I am to mine and also carries the weight of his team, his sponsors, and thousands of fans on his shoulders. I don’t have fans, but I endure other pressures, like supporting my team financially and professionally and the scrutiny of the scientific and medical communities. It’s a lot, and it can weigh you down. “That sounds like an incredible amount of pressure.”

“Nah,” he says with a grin. “It’s no more pressure than anyone else’s career. That’s enough work talk. Let’s go see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

This man is walking trouble where I’m concerned. He’s already got me wanting to know more about him. What does he really think about that pressure? How does he handle it? How often does he get to see his family? Are they still close?

As we explore the Panthéon, he whispers things like, “How about here?” and “I can’t stop thinking about getting my hands on you,” at the most inopportune times, knowing exactly how revved up he’s getting me. He steals kisses behind pillars, and when no one is looking as we walk around, and I’m like a giddy teen, chasing that high. By the time we leave, I’m a heart-pounding bundle of desire, anxiously awaiting our next stolen kiss.

I don’t know which is worse, that Clay has me acting like someone I don’t recognize again or that I like it. But I know one thing for sure. If I’m not careful, Brindle will sniff out last night like a hound dog on a trail.

Chapter Eight

Clay

We stop at a quaint café for a late lunch, and Pepper moves swiftly to the other side of the table, planting herself between Morgyn and Axsel. You can run, my secret vixen, but you can’t hide. I sit directly across from her, and while everyone talks at once about the places we’ve been and the places we have yet to see, I take out my phone and thumb out a text.

Me: I miss you.